


Measure

by GrayJay



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:10:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayJay/pseuds/GrayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Maddy, at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measure

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [shobogan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shobogan) for the beta.

Pre-flight checks always make Maddy think of rosary prayers--not that she’s ever had much use for religion, but she’s always had a soft spot for ritual, for the stubborn faith that human discipline is strong enough push back against the unpredictable and uncontrollable. It’s why she loves flying, why even after the crash--especially after the crash--she couldn’t wait to get back up. Why she’s pretty sure that even if Continental came crawling back with an apology and a raise, she’d stay with the little mom ‘n’ pop outfit in Anchorage. Maddy likes fighting the weather and butting heads with a bare-bones crew who are the kind of stubborn men only seem to get this far north; likes shouting down her mechanics and riding impossible winds and falling asleep too bone-tired to do anything else. Likes the thorny, hard stuff, the things that force a pilot to know her own measure beyond a shadow of doubt.

Which might be why she’s fully prepared to hate the new guy. Bosses’ grandson, no commercial experience--there’s not a single detail that doesn’t scream _dead weight_. Their first meeting doesn’t do a lot to dispel her assumptions, just adds _awkward as hell_ to the list of reasons she’s none too happy to be stuck with Summers as her number two.

But Madelyne Pryor is nothing if not contrary to the core, so she fucks everything up by liking him in spite of herself. It’s a reaction so immediate and visceral and unprecedented that she doubles down on being pissed off and putting him through the paces. Even if it’s retroactive, she’s going to make damn well sure he has to fight for every inch.

She’s surprised to discover that her gut reaction was right: that Summers is a damn fine pilot; that he’s smart, precise, and eerily calm under pressure; that he’ll take orders from a woman his age without pushback and grind through paperwork without complaint. He’s still stiff and awkward--doesn’t joke around or drink with the rest of the crew--but by the end of the second week, he’s earned her grudging respect.

Maddy tells herself that respect is all it is--not that he’s not nice enough looking, but hell, she hardly even knows him enough to like him or not--and she appreciates that he avoids eye contact assiduously enough that she doesn’t have to on the days when she’s shaking off one of the dreams she’s convinced herself are just the byproduct of a long dry spell. Over the next few weeks, they settle into a sort of minimal camaraderie. He still hardly talks to her and almost never looks up when he does, but some mornings he shows up with a second cup of coffee; and for a while, that’s about where it stays.

And then, after a skin-of-their-teeth landing in Juneau--a sudden blizzard, almost total whiteout, and it had finally came down to an invisible runway versus a fuel gauge shivering near empty--instead of ghosting like he usually does, he says, “Nicely done,” with a nod and a sudden grin that pretty well knocks Maddy on her ass.

_Well, shit._

“Looks like we’re down for the night” she says, trying to play it cool. _And those big old hotel beds can get awfully cold._ “Wanna grab a beer?” 

The smile vanishes. “I. Um. I’m sorry. I don’t think that would be a good idea.” He’s out the door before she can respond.

The next morning, he shows up at the airfield with two styrofoam cups, and hands her one. She nods thanks, and they drink for a minute in silence before he says, “Um, look. About yesterday.”

“Forget it,” she says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“No,” he says. “It’s not--” Looks down, traces a finger around the rim of his styrofoam cup. “I’d--it’s not that I don’t want to. And it’s not you, okay? I just--it’s not a good idea.”

“Jesus,” she says. “You’re something else, you know that?”

He grins, ruefully. “I’ve heard.”

She takes another sip of her coffee--black and so much sugar it’s halfway to syrup, because he’s the kind of guy who notices things, even if she’s never actually caught him looking. Tries not to think that has to mean something. “I think you might be the first pilot I’ve met who gave a fuck about mixing business and pleasure.”

His smile is more than a little sad, and _goddamnit_ , that gets her even worse than the grin. “That’s not exactly the issue.”

“So, what is it, then?” When she’d interviewed for the job, she’d told Philip that she was a straight shooter--no games, no bullshit--and while she could take a _no_ and go on with her life, the evasion game is starting to piss her off. “Not your type?”

His snort is halfway to a laugh. “It’s--a little more complicated.”

“You’re gay.”

That time, he does laugh. “No.”

“You have a girlfriend.”

He sighs and looks out at the snow, which is still falling thick and fast. “Look, this isn’t going to let up anytime soon. What say we track down some lunch?”

* * *

“So,” she says, as he’s paying for the burgers, “Girlfriend, huh?” She sees his jaw tighten and thinks, _bingo,_ and then, _damnit_.

“Not exactly,” he says. “I, ah. Had a girlfriend. Fiancée. Briefly.”

“End badly?” she asks. That’d explain why he’s up here, and why he’s so gun shy. Maddy thinks she could live with being a rebound, if the cards are on the table; especially if it means getting rid of the antsy feeling she gets every time she glances his way.

“You could say that,” he says. Through the glasses, Maddy can’t really tell where he’s looking, but she’s pretty sure it’s not at her. “She died.”

“Oh,” says Maddy. _Dumb, dumb, dumb, Pryor. You and your big mouth._ “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Scott. “I mean, it’s not, but--” He pauses and runs a hand through his hair. “You know, it’s probably simpler just to show you.” His wallet’s still sitting on the table, and he digs out a photo and passes it to her face down; and when Maddy flips it over, suddenly a lot of things start to make a lot of sense.

“Damn,” she says. “That’s. _God damn._ ” It’s an uncanny feeling, like looking into a mirror and catching a version of herself from another lifetime, another universe, looking back. She can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like for Scott--running thousands of miles away to lick his wounds, only to find himself face to face with a dead ringer for his dead girl.

“So, yeah,” he says. “And, look, you’re great, and I really--I’d like to, I really would--but every time I look at you, I see Jean. And you should be with somebody who--you deserve so much better than that.”

Which-- _for Christ’s sake, Pryor_ \--is when she falls whatever distance she’s got left to fall; and if she’s not going to give the feeling in her gut a name, she’s still got no choice but to admit that it’s a sight past _like_.

“That’s awfully gallant of you,” she tells him. “Do I get a say in this?”

“I’m not sure what’s left to say,” he says. “I’m really sorry. I really am. I just--”

“Okay,” says Maddy. “Just hear me out. Look, I get why you wouldn’t want to be with someone who reminds you of--the person you lost. And if that’s all there is to it, I’ll back right off. Scout’s honor. But if you’re pulling some kind of self-sacrifice play for my sake, you can put that shit right back on the shelf. I _like_ you, Scott Summers. I’d really like to get to know you. I’d like you to get to know me well enough that maybe you’ll be able to see more than my admittedly damn nice face.”

And oh, shit, there’s that smile again. “I’d--I think I’d like that, too” he says. “Look, I can’t promise--”

“I know,” she says. “It’s cool. I’m a grown-up, Summers. You worry about your own bad decisions, and let me worry about mine. Deal?”

He laughs. “Deal.”

* * *

Maddy doesn’t believe in destiny, but there’s something about Scott that just feels right. _Smells_ right, even. The first time they have sex, they stay up talking until four. He falls asleep with one hand tangled in her hair, and she stays awake until the sun rises, just breathing it all in. 

_This is what heroin must feel like_ , Maddy thinks: the blissful fog, the sense of utter, uncomplicated wholeness. She’s reevaluating past relationships, wondering if she’s ever really been in love before, because nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing has even come close.

Scott stirs and mumbles as he wakes up, and Maddy nuzzles into his neck until he rolls away to fumble for his glasses on the nightstand. She wonders if he’ll still see the dead fiancée when he looks at her now.


End file.
